Page 41 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
Flora.
Reaching up, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He did not like to be uncharitable toward the fairer sex, but ever since Flora Grierson had jilted Laird MacLarsen, she had been hunting for a new husband. And she’d flirted with Reuben enough times to make Grant worry. It was not even the difference in their age—though McWirthe had jested with Reuben about it. It was that Grant did not trust that family.
Not after his years with MacCabe, who’d always warned him to be careful with his words around anyone from that clan. They were terrible gossips and meddlers, and both sycophantic and mocking toward the Crown in the most foolish of ways.
That way lies trouble, lads,MacCabe would often mutter whenever they rode close to Grierson lands, causing Grant and his best friend to exchange amused glances. It had even become something of a joke between Damien and Grant, something they might include in their letters.
Weighing the perfumed letter in his hand, Grant wondered if he should open it. Whatever Flora was writing to his brother could not be good.
As though summoned, Reuben barged into the study at that moment and shot his brother a wide grin. He was filthy from the road and did not seem to care that he was leaving dirt in his wake, nor that he smelled like a pigpen and a tavern rolled into one.
“I found him,” he gasped, and Grant stood up. “Well, easy, I found his name. Tolmach. Matched the description, and the last time he was seen, he was heading to England.”
Tolmach.
The name sounded vaguely familiar, and Grant frowned.
Reuben’s whistle jolted him out of his musing, and he noted his brother shaking his head at him.
“What?” he rasped.
“Ye ken how to pick yer enemies, Braither,” Reuben said. “This Tolmach is kenned to work with his cousin, Oster. And Oster is associated with the Fosson brothers. Out of that wretched bit of border they clawed back, the damned Shillmoors. Ye ken, those bloody bandits who gleefully butcher our folk in the name of England.”
“Fosson,” Grant murmured and heaved a sigh, remembering the bastards who’d pursued Emma and tried to kill him. The prick who spat that shite about keeping rotten blood out of England. “Of course. Dammit.”
“We’re lookin’ for Oster, but we’ve had nay luck, so far. But he apparently likes a party, and there are rumors of him skulkin’ about. Me lads think he could waltz right into our hands.” Reuben shook back his hair, and pine needles fell out. “I should take a bath. Anythin’ else? How’s the English captive?”
Grant did not answer, simply twirled the letter in his hands and stared at his brother.
“If the killer comes to the festival, will ye?”
“Nay, I shall let ye bring him to me.” Grant sighed and held out the letter. “When have I ever gone, Reuben?”
Reuben took the letter and jumped, then turned around. “When we were lads, of course.”
His belly cold, Grant balled his fists on the desk and sucked in a breath, and only let it out when Reuben slammed the door shut behind him.
Perhaps he needed to send the lad north to be with their family in Lochinver for a spell—learn a bit more about the world on that hardbitten coast. Or perhaps he’d send him to MacCabe. Let Damien turn him into a man with an ounce of sense.
Before he could reach for a quill, determined not to let Reuben idle another summer away, the door flew open.
This time, Grant did not reach for his blade. He slowly looked up to find Emma marching in. She glanced askance at the floor, then pursed her lips as she reached his desk.
He blinked, noting the color on her cheeks, the lock of hair peeking from beneath her hat, and the scent of herbs clinging to her skin.
Ye have been in the gardens. Weepin’.
There were tear tracks on her face, but her eyes were clear and calm as she looked at him. “I need some paper—if it pleases you, My Laird.”
“It doesnae,” Grant said and leaned over the desk. His heart raced as he remembered the taste of her lips, the way she’d arched into him, the way she obediently opened her legs. “And ye cannae keep bargin’ in here like a bull put to stud, lass. I willnae have it.”
Her eyes flashed. “I know of no other way to get your attention, Sir. You must give me some paper. I have to write to my aunt—she must make preparations for me at Cambarelle.”
He waved a dismissive hand and stood up straight, folding his arms across his chest. “Yorkshire is at least a week’s ride from here, if nae longer. Ye will have time.” He forced himself to stay behind his desk. “What is this truly about?”
“My sister,” she said.
Grant’s heart ached at the pain in her voice.
